Whither do we drift,
Insensate souls, whose every breath
Foretells the doom of nothingness?
Yet onward, upward let it be
Through all the myriad circles
Of the ensuing years--
And then, pray what?
Alas! 'tis all, and never shall be stated.
Atoms, yet atomless we drift,
But whitherward?
I had intended this for one of our leading magazines, but it seemed
so to lack the mystical quality, which is essential to a successful
magazine poem in our sphere, that I deemed it best to try it on Boswell.